When I opened my eyes for the second time today, the world greeted me with darkness.
A damp, foul-smelling room shrouded in shadows. Dew dripped from the stone walls, and strange tools hung from iron hooks on the walls like trophies, or threats. Everything about this place felt... wrong.
"You're awake."
That voice. Soft, rotten, playful in a way that made me shiver. The Heavenly Dragon.
I tried to turn my head to see it—but nothing moved.
Thick leather straps held me in place. My head was locked in position, forced to stare straight up at the cracked ceiling. My arms, legs, chest—even my hands and fingers—were tied one by one, each held in place as if I were a specimen on a butcher's table.
I couldn't look. I couldn't fight. I couldn't even shake.
All I could do was listen—and wait.
Even when I tried to scream, I couldn't. My jaw was tightly bound, locked firmly in my skull—just like the rest of my body. All I could do was let out a muffled, hoarse, helpless groan.
But something felt wrong.
My mouth—there was something strange about it. My right lip felt swollen, stretched unnaturally. And my cheek... it felt like it was burning. A deep, stinging pain, like someone had pressed a new blade straight from the workshop into my flesh, still red and glowing, not yet cooled by water. The heat pulsed, raw and hot, and just as I began to process it—
His voice returned, low and sweetly painful.
"Let my doctor stitch up your little wound first."
The words sounded like a final verdict.
Before I could prepare myself, I felt it. A sharp, unnatural tug inside my cheek. Not thread. No, this wasn't thread. It felt stiff. Metal. Cold as it entered, but hot as it passed through. My skin jerked every time it was pulled, every time the needle pierced cruelly.
I thrashed against the restraints as hard as my battered body would allow, grunting like an animal in a trap—but the leather didn't budge. The pain didn't fade. It just kept going, steady and mechanical. Whoever was stitching my face had no mercy. No hesitation. No humanity.
They weren't treating a wound.
They were repairing—like a broken doll.
And I couldn't do a damn thing to stop it.
For what felt like forever, the torture continued until, finally, I felt the last pull. Then a rough snip. The thing—whatever they'd used—was cut off and tied in place.
I could hardly breathe. My chest rose and fell as if I had just survived being tossed by waves as high as a dozen stories, then dragged down until I drowned.
Then came his voice again—oozing satisfaction.
"You know… your resilience is quite impressive. I've never had a slave endure wire stitching without blacking out."
Wire?
Wire?!
He stitch my face shut with wire?
What the fucking hell?
Before I could even finish that cursed more in my head, his voice slithered back into my ears.
"I really want to add you to my collection."
No. Please no. That would be a nightmare—worse than death. Being a trophy to a man like him? I'd rather die in the sandpit.
"But… you're still too weak right now."
For a second—just a second—those words let me breathe. A strange relief. Maybe he'd move on. Maybe I'd be forgotten. But then he continued, and the chill returned to my bones.
"How about this… every month, you'll face one of my slaves in a one-on-one match."
A pause.
Long enough for the dread to bloom in my chest.
"And if you win…" he chuckled, like a child unwrapping a gift, "you'll become my exclusive slave."
No. No no no—
"But if you lose…"
Another pause.
"…there will be punishment. Like today shushushushushu."
That laugh.
That inhuman, spine-crawling laugh at the end.
It wasn't just his voice that unsettled me—it was his entire existence. This wasn't a man. He was something else.
And I was caught in his game.
No matter if I win or lose… I still lose.
--
The guard dragged me back to my cell, the clink of his keys echoing through the dim corridor. My body swayed with every step, the lingering ache in my cheek throbbing with each heartbeat.
I never saw the bastard who stitched me. The moment the guard unbuckled the straps that bound me to that bed, the room was empty—just the scent of metal and something acrid lingering in the air. Whoever he was, he moved like a savage, quick but messy. Still, his touch—if you could call it that—was burned into my memory. And I swear, one day, I will find him. And I'll pay him back. Him… and that damn Celestial Dragon who put me there.
Then there was the Whitebeard copycat, Edgard Oldgate. At least, that's what I heard. But I doubt that's his real name. That's because no matter what I did, I could never see his stats sheet, so either that's not his real name or my stats eye isn't working anymore, which I highly doubt. Perhaps "Edgard Oldgate" is just a title given to him by his master, a label rather than a name. Because no matter what he has done to me, no matter how cruel he is, I can see it in the way he moves, the way his eyes flicker when his master speaks—he is still a slave. Bound, and if his master called him Edgard, that was the name the world would know him by, even if it wasn't the name he held in his heart.
When we stopped in front of my cell, the guard fumbled with the key, the clink of metal echoing in the damp corridor. From the cell to my left, a familiar face appeared between the iron bars—Boa Hancock, her expression slightly illuminated by the silvery moonlight that seeped through the cracks in the ceiling, making her look more elegant than usual, even though worry was written all over her face.
She leaned forward, trying to see me more clearly, but fortunately, her angle hid the right side of my face. My cheek was stitched with wire, and I didn't want her to see it—at least not tonight.
"Vincent!" she hissed, voice low but sharp with worry. "Are you allright? I was afraid something happened… Darius came back alone today, and he wouldn't tell me where you were."
Her tone was more than worry—it was the kind of concern that gnaws at you so you can't sleep. And judging from the way the moon hung high and round in the ink-black sky, it had to be well past midnight. She'd been waiting for me all this time, fighting the pull of exhaustion just to make sure I returned.
Behind her, boa sisters curled up together in the corner of their room, breathing slowly and steadily, immersed in whatever peaceful world their dreams had brought them. Even in my cell, I could see Darius lying on the floor, snoring with the same satisfied grin etched on his face, as if he too was dreaming of fighting and winning.
The dimly lit corridor smelled faintly of mold and rust, somehow making me feel calm, but the guard grabbed my arm roughly enough to remind me that I was still just a piece of cargo being sent back to the warehouse. But in that brief exchange, with her eyes fixed on me through the bars, I felt the weight of her worry and fear.
The guard pushed me through the cell door with a growl, the iron bars clanging shut behind me. I stumbled forward, catching myself just before I hit the damp stone floor. In the corner, Darius lay on the cold ground, snoring as if he didn't care about anything, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
From the cell next to mine, Hancock's voice pierced the darkness—soft, but tinged with curiosity and concern.
"Vincent... say something, please. What happened to you today? Why are you back so late?"
I hesitated, leaning my back against the cold wall. The truth choked my throat, but if I told her what had really happened—about the wire, the stitches, the sadistic terms of the agreement—it would only make her more worried. But if I didn't answer her, she might start looking for answers herself, and that would be dangerous.
So I gave her something that was half-true, enough to prevent her from digging deeper.
"Nothing serious, Hancock. I was just... defeated by that Whitebeard wannabe from yesterday. Apparently, some people who didn't watch the fight were curious about how a kid like me could have beaten him before. And this time, he closed all his gaps and attacked me relentlessly. I couldn't keep up. In the end, I was beaten to a pulp and spent the rest of the day in what you might call… the hospital?"
Even speaking that much made my cheeks throb. My words came out stuttered and disjointed, the wire pulling at the torn flesh every time my jaw moved. I wasn't sure if my mouth would ever move the same way again—or if I would ever speak without that faint metallic taste of blood again.
"What's wrong with your voice? It sounds... muffled. Are you sure you're okay?" Her voice sharpened with concern, and I could almost imagine her eyebrows furrowing in the dim moonlight.
So she noticed. I guess it was too obvious—every word I spoke was filtered through swollen cheeks and lips that refused to move properly.
"I just sprained my jaw," I said, forcing the words out slowly, careful not to pull on the wires too much. "It's nothing serious."
It was a clean excuse—reasonable enough to explain my slurred speech without raising too many questions. Certainly better than telling the truth. Some lies were easier for both of us to live with.
"Hancock… I'm sorry, but I can't tell you any more tonight," I mumbled, my words stumbling and slow. "My jaw still hurts, and I'm… exhausted."
Lowering myself to the ground felt like sinking into broken glass—every muscle screaming from a day of exhaustion, and the dull burning sensation in my jaw constantly reminding me of what had happened. A reminder that I felt I would never be able to erase, no matter how many years passed.
"Yes, you need to rest, V," she said softly.
V? That's a good nickname. Short, sharp, and with a bit of edge like a British terrorist movie. Cool enough to almost make me forget the pain.
As I let my body relax, my mind drifted into darkness, and exhaustion finally overtook me. Sleep came quickly—well deserved after such a grueling day.
--
A rough tug on my shoulder brought me back to reality. My eyes opened wide, still blurry from sleep, and the dim light filtering through a crack in the ceiling told me it was morning. The first thing I saw was Darius, crouching in front of me, his graying face clouded with something I didn't expect from him—worry.
"kid... what happened yesterday? And what's that on your cheek?" His voice wasn't tinged with dry sarcasm or condescension as usual. His voice was steady, serious, almost... protective.
"This?" I raised my hand to my right cheek, feeling the sting where the wire stitches, freshly sewn yesterday, pulled at my cheek. The wire felt cold from the damp air, every movement sending a sharp reminder through my jaw. "Just say... I lost. And this is the punishment." My tone made it clear that I didn't want to dig any deeper.
Darius narrowed his eyes. "That's all?" There was suspicion in his voice now, with a tone that told me he didn't believe the half truth I had just told him. And he wasn't wrong. I didn't want to tell anyone what had happened—but if anyone knew what to do, it was him.
I sighed slowly. "Yesterday, I met one of the Celestial Dragons. Ended up fighting that Whitebeard wannabe again… and lost." I tapped my stitched cheek lightly. "This is what they gave me as a souvenir. Then he said I would need fight one of his slaves once a month. If I lost, I would be punished again. If I won... I would become his exclusive slave." My eyes met his, searching for some kind of answer. "What do you think I should do, Darius?"
There was a moment of silence, except for the faint dripping of water somewhere in the hallway. Darius watched me, his gaze unreadable, as if weighing every word I said. I didn't know if he had an answer, but right now, I needed one. Because whatever path I took from here... I doubted I would be able to walk it alone.